


Stormy Day

by Slashify



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6424732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slashify/pseuds/Slashify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hate storms. Greg helps you through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stormy Day

**Author's Note:**

> I hate thunder storms. This was my way of coping with one.

You turn up the football match as thunder cracks again, flashes of lightning on its heels. You hate storms. You try to relax into Greg's old couch, gripping one of the mismatched cushions until your hands start to ache. Greg had missed this match because of work, but you had recorded it. You know the feel of your skin crawling with electricity is all in your head. The tiny hairs on your arms aren't truly vibrating on end. Knowing it's psychosomatic doesn't help.

You take a deep breath and focus on the match. Arsenal are winning. Greg will be pleased. Even if he knows the outcome, he'll enjoy watching the game play out. He'll be home soon, though not as soon as you'd like. 

There had been some police emergency that morning. Sally had picked Greg up in a Panda car, which meant he'd probably take the tube home. The emergency turned out to be minor, and Greg had texted you that it was all taken care of well before noon. 

Still, if he took the tube home, Greg would get distracted and stand and watch that busker he liked play and sing for a bit. You wonder for the hundredth time if his colleagues know about Greg's love of music, his punk days, the London Calling tattoo on his side, a small guitar smashing onto his rib cage. He'll be soaked to the bone when he gets home. 

You jump when the door opens, admitting a surprisingly dry Greg. Your fingers unclench from the cushion, leaving crimped and crinkled corners. His eyes light up when he sees you, but a frown creases between his eyebrows as he takes in the squeezed corners of his couch cushion, the higher volume of the Telly, and what you know must be your frazzled face. Sherlock might not think much of Greg's detective skills, but you're sure he knows how you spent this afternoon just by looking at you.

"You're dry," you offer, not caring if it seems obvious, "you didn't take the tube?"

"No," he almost grimaces, "say what you will about Mycroft's cars, but they are dry. Fast, too. If it weren't for the questions about Sherlock in the car, I'd think it was out of the kindness of his heart. Back in a tic."

You don't hear the shower. Greg knows it makes you nervous during lightning storms. He knows the sounds of the match will drown it out. He comes out of the bedroom minutes later wearing a similar outfit to yours. You each wear an old band tee shirt of his, yours The Clash, his some band you've never heard of. You wear stretchy yoga pants where he has well-worn, soft sweatpants.

Greg stops off in the kitchen for two Fantas, then meets you on the couch. He sets the drinks on the table before sitting and pulling you against him.

Your head lands on his chest. The roar of the match on the Telly fades into the background for you. Greg's hand strokes your neck. His heart beats loudly and steadily in your ear. You take deep breaths. 

Greg doesn't try to comfort you with words. He doesn't tell you the lightning can't hurt you here, or try to reason away your fears. He gently rubs the back of your neck and your shoulders. He comments softly on the game, which players he thinks are doing well and which should be off the team.

He squeezes your shoulder lightly and whoops out a cheer as Arsenal score. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The storm is moving away. Greg wraps his arms around you, your head nestled against his chest, his heart beating steadily in your ear. You glance up at him. He's grinning a beautiful lopsided grin at the match.

This is the man you love. 

He reaches for his Fanta, mumbling something nasty about the coach. You feel him relax as you do. The storm is distant now.

He looks down at you with a fond expression. He runs a hand down your arm.

"Rough day, love?"

"Mm-hm. Better now."

Greg's hand slips up under your shirt, hot against your belly. He gazes down at you, biting his lip before licking it. Heat surges through you at the sight.

Greg pauses the DVR, halting the game. He nudges you off the couch. He wraps his arms around you, leading you to the bedroom. 

The storm has moved on now. You're safe.


End file.
